The Mirror Crack'd
by Jacynthe Demorae
Summary: Vergil’s ten year search for Dante leads to Capulet City, ground zero for a massive spell that will leave none of Sparda’s bloodline unaffected. Pre-DMC 3 AU, Dante/Vergil, genderswitch.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters and concepts of _Devil May Cry_ belong to Capcom, and other legal/corporate entities who are not me. This story is meant purely to entertain other fans. No profit has been made, and no challenge to copyright is intended.

Overall story warnings: AU, language, violence, genderswitch, incest, dark themes. Other chapters may contain more specific warnings. May offend the traditionally religious. Includes elements of manga and novel canon, and some anime place names

The Mirror Crack'd (Dark Ambrosia 1)  
by Jacynthe Demorae

Chapter One

_"He that is stricken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost."_  
--_Romeo and Juliet_ Act 1, Scene 1

Over the years, Vergil had developed a ritual he named The Calling. As a thaumaturgical exercise, it was inelegant, a welding of sympathetic folk magic, esoteric theory, and a sprinkling of demon lore. Yet when the one he sought was also an inelegant blending of human and demon, the odds of a favorable outcome increased. Like drew like, after all.

Or at least, it should. The success rate was not to his standards.

Vergil sat cross-legged on the poured cement floor of the storage unit he'd rented. Before him lay a massive black book, an atlas of great age. It would take a careful eye to note the parchment that made up its pages had a peculiar texture, that the inks that outlined the maps were subtly off-color--and still warm to the touch. Vergil had wrested this book, the _Libellus Phantasmis Geographica_ from its keeper only after careful years of stalking and preparation. In the end, the defenses had proven more formidable than the librarian.

Still, four years. Four years taken from building his own power base, from finding the key that would unlock that last barrier between himself and his true destiny as the firstborn son of Sparda. He hoped Dante had a good explanation for this near-decade of silence.

He opened the massive book, turning the spell-treated pages with care. The number of pages within the great atlas remained the same, two for each discovered country. It took an act of will to 'set' the page to show the correct map at the correct time. The maps of the physical world took the most effort. One night, he'd been too tired for the task and found himself scrying for his brother while using a Civil War era map of the Confederate States.

He found the page he wanted, a large map of the East Coast of the United States. Three-quarters of the coast were grayed out, already searched. He frowned at the struck out areas. He'd worked his way across Europe and most of the continental United States in an effort to find his lost twin. Once, he'd only needed to calm his mind to reach out for Dante. Nearly ten years of separation had reduced him, a son of Sparda, to puttering with hedge witch's props.

If this next session brought no results, he would have to expand his search into Canada and Mexico. If _that_ failed... There was the Middle and Far East, and other, less likely places. Places where Dante's nature could not be so easily hidden, and so should have been revealed long before now. He kept an ear out for such reports, wherever they might originate.

He lifted the amulet from his neck, careful not to handle the stone itself. His parents had never explained just _what_ the red crystal was, but even his untutored eye could tell this was not a ruby. Not even star rubies held such an intense white core. Touching the crystal always left his fingertips numb, as if the stone siphoned off some of his own strength.

A black stone bowl sat a safe distance from the _Libellus Phantasmis_. Mere water and oil likely could not harm the book, but he'd learned such precautions in his father's library. The bowl itself was uneven, with a tendency to wobble if set set on a surface not 100% level and smooth. He lifted the bowl and set it before him.

A fat drop of oil floated on the surface of the water like a buoyant piece of black opal. He dangled the red gem over the bowl. THe only light came from a three-armed candelabra, set on the far side of the unit. Unlike those pathetic hedge witches, he didn't have to waste time on 'sacred breath' or 'patterned breathing' or whatever foolish names they gave to the most basic manipulation of power.

He and Dante were twins, physically identical to the last drop of blood, the smallest sliver of bone. Any spell cast to find Vergil cloud also find Dante, and vice-versa. He plucked a single silvery hair from his head, letting the brief pain feed into the spell He dropped the strand into the bowl, watching it begin to lazily spin on the surface of the oil. When it stopped moving, he would have an axis to search along.

_Could_ the demons have killed Dante without him even noticing? At first, perhaps. The shock of Mother's death reverberate for a mile, blotting out all else. Eva had spent so much power, expended every talisman Sparda had taught her how to use, the maelstrom of magic had lit up worlds.

Afterwards, he should have felt the absence. He and Dante were like a plant that branched away from the same root. However disparate their paths, they were connected with a solid base. That he could not find his brother meant only that Dante had managed to construct a very hardy ward, or gotten himself captured by a powerful enemy, a sorcerer, perhaps.

Any seal broke with enough power. Any lock turned with the right key. He would get both.

The single hair stopped moving. Vergil lifted the amulet and held it over the bowl, letting the red stone move over it. An unseen force pushed the stone away from him, towards the opposite end. That was the spell's echo taking root in Dante. Vergil smiled. A strong reaction, too.

He moved the bowl aside and set to work with the map. The stone pulled his attention along the ragged line of the Dob River, where it washed towards the Hudson The gem slowed, its pointing moving in tighter and tighter circles around the region called Fairfield County, touching down at last on the city-dot of Capulet.

If his brother was not there, he would find news of him. In the past, he'd journeyed in person to such 'positive' sites, only to find the trail long cold. He'd since developed a mor_efficient_ use of his time and resources.

He took out a small drawstring pouch and worked it open. Squeezing the bag, he poured a generous handful of gritty brown sand over the spot on the map. Replacing the pouch, Vergil stood and spread his arms wide. His summoning proficiency fell somewhat short of his desired level, but it would work for this errand.

His vision blurred, the air thickening with the misty forms of disembodied devils. They swirled with the currents of the air. Weak, pathetic creatures, these, barely enough intelligence to recognize their own natures. He did not know if these creatures had ever once had physical forms of their own and he did not care to know. They were far more useful to him like this.

He concentrated, focusing his pore like a great hand pressing down. There was resistance, of course, but not enough to turn him back. The pile of sand began to vibrate, scattering across the map with a hissing sound. Vergil held the image in his mind, willing the creatures to take form The grains of sand began to rise, hanging n the air like a dirty fog.

"Go," he told the swirling cloud of dust. "Go from this spot and search this city for the one who reeks of power and demon's blood, the one who is my shadow. Call him by his name, _Dante_. Show yourselves and challenge his strength, and return to me with his answer."

The dust cloud split into three distinct swirls. They moaned in unison, then whirled away, leaving only a brief scattering of dry sand in their wake. Vergil touched Yamato's hilt. He'd waited for nearly a decade, he could bide the short time it would take for these creatures to confront Dante. Only one, he imagined, would return. They're all craven things, barely enough wits together to tell wet from dry. The only flaw in this plan lay in Dante. His twin might easily overcome these pitiful creatures, forcing Vergil to send after him again and again.

His gaze fell on the open atlas and the waiting bowl. Only a little longer, now.

* * *

"Massssssssster?"

A tattered red leather coat fell with a wet thwap on the floor. For a moment, fury and dread seared through him. Red, the color Dante gravitated to whenever he had had the chance or choice, as if wearing the color of his soul. Vergil dropped to one knee and gathered up the ruined garment. Raising the dollar to his nose, he sniffed.

Blood, yes, a great deal of it. Human, mostly, with the scent of cordite and scorched leather. Vergil grimaced. Even as a child, Dante had shown an indecent fascination with firearms, pestering their father to allow him to examine Luce and Ombra at any opportunity. But  
surely he'd outgrown such a childish fascination. Swords were the proper weapon of the demon-blooded, not those loud toys of mortals. Yet Dante wore gunpowder like cologne, it seemed.

He inhaled again, deeper. Male fear-sweat, the stale smell of beer and cigarettes, gun oil and silver polish. Death. And almost overwhelmed by those scents, one familiar note.

He and Dante didn't smell alike, not to him. Dante's scent had always carried something wild, like the smoke of a fire about to burst control. He caught a hint of demon-blooded female, and the candlewax smell of potent sorcery. Dante had indeed worn this coat, but someone else had died in it.

"_Damn_ you, you imbecilic vermin!" He flung the coat down on the floor, ignoring the wet 'splat' it made. Apparently, the servants hadn't entirely emptied it before bringing it to him. "I sent you fools after a _man_, not a woman! Surely together you have enough wit to tell the one from the other!"

Reaching behind him, he wrapped his fingers around a leather-wrapped hilt. Not Yamato--failure of this nature did not merit execution by his father's blade. _This_ was some glorified bit of pot-metal, clumsily ensorcelled and hawked as an Artifact of Power (TM) by the fool who'd sold it to him. He kept it the way other men might keep knives for physical labor.

"Your orders were clear. Yet you bring me _this_?" He kicked at the offending garment.

The Pride shivered, its outline becoming fuzzy as it began to lose cohesion. "It lived, O Massssssster."

Lesser demons, those without bodies, could not manage abstract concepts like 'time' and 'gender'. The human that had died in Dante's coat must have matched the description--in the early search, he had not been specific enough, and so several elderly humans had been sped into their next lives. He had a few precious physical items that had belonged to Dante alone, but Vergil would not entrust them to the likes of these. After all, what could be used to track Dante could be used to track _him_, and he held no illusions as to his standing in the demon world.

"You challenged the one I bade you, one who wore this coat, and it defeated you?" he asked, wanting to be sure of the events.

The Pride cringed, scythe drooping in its grip. Sand sifted onto the floor. "Yesss..."

"But the one in the coat now is not the one you fought, the coat is proof of the one you _did_ fight."

Its eyes sockets blazed, relieved to have pleased the master. "Yes!"

Proverbs about camels and sewing needles swam through his mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right, enough. Go."

The Pride slipped from its sand-shell, leaving a gritty pile on the floor. Vergil ignored it, staring instead at the ruined leather coat his twin had apparently recently worn. Ten years was a long time in the human world, especially for those growing from boys into men. Dante might not have matured into anything like the man Vergil was.

He crouched down, fingering the torn edges of the leather. Most of the rents were singed, enormous punctures made by something very hot, moving very fast. Bullet holes, and high-caliber, if his minimal knowledge held true. Not enough blood to be fatal, not for a son of Sparda.

The coat itself looked expensive, good quality workmanship and materials. Except for the ornaments, of course. He touched one of the few silver ornaments left intact , a crudely carved Eye of Horus that could have been purchased from any street vendor in any city of decent size. Why would Dante sport such a paltry protective charm?

Showy. And distracting. The method in Dante's madness lay in the disorienting power of his annoying behavior. For all his whimsy, Dante had inherited a full share of a devil's cunning. Vergil disdained firearms, so he could read nothing from the ragged holes, aside from the simple that that before encountering the Prides, _someone_ had emptied a great deal of lead into his brother.

"Making yourself popular, I see," he murmured.

Who was the female, though? Her scent to be mixed so thoroughly with Dante's indicated she had to be a very iintimatei acquaintance. Vergil snorted softly. At least he had the sense to choose a female with demonic blood. Still... had Dante been deterred from seeking him out because of a iwoman/i?

Well, Dante had the attention span of a cat, Vergil allowed, distracted by anything flashy or noisy that happened in a half-mile radius. He sat back on his heels, considering. Fact: Dante had very recently worn this coat. Fact: Between getting shot full of holes and the appearance of the Prides, Dante had abandoned the garment, and a human had, for some reason, donned the bloody rag. His servants, confused by the thick blood scent soaking the garment, had attacked and killed the human, believing him to be their true target. Fact: somewhere in or near Capulet City, Dante lived close by a female with strong demonic blood.

If he wanted more details, he would have to go to Capulet City.

He sighed. He hated traveling.

* * *

Capulet City was nothing like he'd expected. Oh, the ubiquitous urban trash, both human and otherwise coked the streets. Colorful lights played on dirty walls and greasy streets. Tinted glass in the buildings and cars hid interiors like a woman lowering her eyes in false modesty. The underworld of a city did not organize itself in tidy grids. A building here, a street there, a neighborhood, a parking lot, eddies of darkness spiraling inward.

Humans cherished their little masks, their precious facades. They liked to present themselves as virtuous, heroic, and wise. All it took was one mis-step, one tiny error, and their masks fell away. Their facades crumbled, and they willingly threw themselves into the pit Sparda had dragged them out of at such great cost.

The Freetown section of Capulet changed his perception. The very air seethed around him, an urban blister about to burst. A nascent Hellgate. _Interesting,_ Vergil thought. He could tell very little about the gate at this distance. It felt small, perhaps artificial. But it was here, and according to the spell, so was Dante.

He passed a few hard-eyed women in tight dresses and cheap, spindly shoes. Where and how had Dante met the woman? he wondered. Contrary to Hollywood's dreams, succubi did not flourish in the world's oldest profession. The men who hired such women lacked the core of purity that made coupling with a human palatable. So what manner of demon had Dante secured for himself?

That Dante kept a female close enough to leave her scent on his closest possessions meant he had a lair somewhere within the city, a place he could hold against enemies. No matter how carefully his brother might hide his power, Vergil should be able to detect it and trace it back to its source.

A grudging admiration flared. To create a ward so strong even a twin could not unravel took enormous power and concentration. Still, it was a purely defensive magic, and very draining. Dante would need to replenish himself often to sustain it. Which, he thought, turning a corner, might explain the woman. Sex was a handy power source and less likely to draw attention than death and bloodletting.

"Hey! Hey, Redgrave! Where's my damn money, asshole?"

Running feet pounded up the pavement behind him. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Vergil spun with it, coming face to face with a swarthy human man. Dark eyes widened in surprise.

"Shit, sorry, man, I thought you were someone else. I mean you look just like--"

Was it going to be this easy, Vergil wondered, after all this time?

"Oh?" Vergil cocked a brow. "And who did you think I was?"

The human's gaze fell on Yamato. He raised his hands and began to back away. "Nobody, sorry. My mistake."

Nobodies were the nameless vermin of the Underworld, lower than maggots. Vergil did not like being compared to one, even in the clumsy human vernacular. He closed the growing distance between them with a single pace.

"A mistake, yes. One you are compounding by lying to me. Who is this Redgrave you speak of?"

"Nobody, man, look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it--"

Vergil knew his appearance was distinctive. Humans just did not run as pale as he and his brother, not without some genetic defect to account for it. That a complete stranger could accost him, mistaking him for another... This man had seen Dante, knew him by another name.

Vergil grabbed the man's shirtfront and pushed him down a narrow alleyway. The man fell sprawling among a pile of black garbage bags. One of the bags burst, releasing a fetid, soggy mass that stank of rotting fish. Vergil followed after. The only exit was behind him, and this was not the kind of neighborhood where Good Samaritans flourished.

He raised Yamato, holding it lengthwise. The man froze, staring.

"This will go much easier for you if you simply tell me what I wish to know." He set his thumb under the hilt guard. "Now, tell me of this Redgrave."

His eyes fixed on the sword, the fallen man began to talk.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: see chapter one, no challenge, no profit.

A/N: The Yamato mythos here has no grounds in actual Japanese swordsmithing and mythology.

Chapter Two

"_A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, where underneath the grove of sycamore that westward rootheth this city side, so early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made, but he was ware of me."_   
--_Romeo and Juliet_, Act 1, Scene 1

The Silver Dollar crouched between a pool hall and a dry cleaners. His reluctant informant had told him of the place and provided the name of an informant inside. Then, his usefulness had expired. Vergil had dispatched him with a brusque twist of the neck.

He tugged briefly on the broad brim of his hat before entering. It had taken some time to settle on his appearance. He needed to gather more information about this Tony Redgrave , yet pass unseen and unnoticed until he knew for certain this other was indeed his twin. His disguise options were limited. His pale hair would not take to any dyes--Mother had tried that once when they were boys and fleeing Father's enemies. But then, the Hounds hunted by scent, not sight, so it would have availed naught. His hair refused to grow past a certain length. He might cut it, but it would restore itself within a day.

The sons of Sparda were not meant to conceal themselves.

Inside, the bar looked and smelled like any other cheap watering hole in the country. He could smell the toilets in the back and the cloying faux pine scent that attempted to mask it. Dante's agent operated out of _here_? he thought, glancing around. The entire structure looked a missed bribe away from being condemned.

He spotted his quarry near the back, seated under a moth-eaten moose head mounted on the wall. Enzo Ferrino wore baggy clothes, perhaps to hide his portly physique. A faded blue golf cap sat askew on his glossy black curls. Two aging whores sat on either side of him, and an assortment of glasses and empty bottles cluttered up the table. The informant continued his story, with much handwaving. The women, sensing Vergil's approach began to ease away.

"---so I said to the guy--"

"You are the one called Enzo."

Surprised, the man glanced around, then focused on Vergil. A hint of wariness tightened his features as he noted the sword Vergil held so casually between his hands.

"'Kay, you found me." Enzo held his hands up in mock surrender. The whores, having a better read on the situation, drew away. "What can I do for you?"

"I seek Tony Redgrave."

Enzo's face went from jovial to blank in the space of a breath. "I might know somebody who knows somebody who goes by that name."

Vergil let slip a chill smile. "How odd. I know someone who knows you manage Redgrave's contracts."

Enzo pursed his lips, looking Vergil up and down. "You don't look like you're hiring, big guy. If it's info you're after... "

"I have business with Tony Redgrave. _Personal_ business, and I will be most annoyed with anyone who interferes with it." He took a step forward, effectively blocking the informant in. "If your reputation is not as I have heard, you and a great number of people have wasted my time. I will expect to be compensated for that."

Vergil ran Yamato's tasseled cord between his fingers, the way some men might touch a woman's hair. To his credit, Enzo held his ground, though he blanched and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"Like you said, I manage _contracts_. No contract, no business. No business, no info. You can go run the gauntlet at the Cellar like every other newbie in town."

"The...Cellar."

"Bobby's Cellar. You got a job to offer or services to render, you go there. It's not exactly in the tourist guides, but if you've got half an ear for these things, you'll find it."

"And I will find Redgrave there."

Enzo gave a nonchalant shrug that did not hide the sweat stains under his arms. His fear smelled vinegar-sharp and chloroform sweet. Humans were such disgusting creatures.

"Best place to find him."

"Then you will show me to this place. As..." Again, he gave the man cold smile. "...a professional courtesy."

"Sure, sure buddy, whatever. Lemme just settle my tab--"

Without blinking, Vergil reached under his coat and withdrew a folded set of fifties. He dropped them on the table, narrowly missing dunking them in a half-full glass.

"Consider it settled."

* * *

Enzo insisted on waiting another two hours before taking him to the Cellar. Mercs of Redgrave's caliber, he explained, kept odd hours, and Redgrave's were odder than most.

"Never had such a picky client," Enzo grumped. "Jobs worth thousands, but nothing doing . Redgrave's _peculiar_, only takes _special_ jobs, you see. Thing is, the special jobs can look an awful lot like the boring jobs, so I never know which is which until I make my pitch. "

"Yet you continue to prosper."

"Redgrave ain't the only game in town. Just one of the best. I know about this one guy, he's tried to kill Redgrave ninety-seven times! Or mebbe it's ninety-eight now, it always ends the same."

Vergil frowned. "For what reason is this man allowed to live?"

"Cause he's pathetic. Redgrave shut down the operation he worked for, and this guy, he don't work so good without a group. Nobody else wants to take 'im on. He's a worse beggar than Scrounger."

How very odd. After all the care Dante had put into avoiding pursuers, one who showed this much persistence should have met Rebellion's edge long ago. Unless... Dante _had_ laired here. Mercy was a waste of energy, but some pests caused more trouble dead than alive.

"Two years ago, you wouldna recognized this place," Enzo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Numbers rackets, protection rackets, pimps, pushers, bangers, you name it, it happened. Business was good in those days." Enzo drank a toast to the old glories. Vergil began counting the cracks in the plaster, just to keep from reaching over and strangling the sot.

"Then this kid with white granny-hair blows in and takes the place apart." Enzo chuckled and shook his head. "That was somethin' to see. Some of the toughest dons and their cappos, hightailing it outta town like something outta _Analyze This_, but without the tractor."

White hair. Vergil twined the tasseled cords around his fingers again, stroked them smooth. It had to be Dante. The scrying spell, the Hellgate, these descriptions from two separate sources... Dante was somewhere in this city, _alive_.

"Changed how everybody did business," Enzo said reflectively.

Vergil watched with something like horror. Some men, after the amount of alcohol Enzo had consumed, succumbed to a revolting display of weeping and displays of affection. But Enzo just sighed and sat up a little straighter.

"Can't say I mind. Make a better living pitching services to a group than working for a group people hate."

Vergil quirked a brow in silent question. In his experience, humans felt safer as part of a group, be it family, political, religious, or corporate. The herd of prey versus the pack of predators. It took an extraordinary human--like his mother--to stand alone.

Still, this Redgrave person was teaching humans to be strong--at least, as strong as humans could manage. It was, perhaps an extension of their father's work, or an homage to their fallen mother. A useful enough hobby to occupy Dante's time until their reunion.

"Now the... businessmen hire out. You represent the business, you're a beggar in a suit. You represent a _specialist_," Enzo gave Vergil a conspiratorial grin, "_they_ come to _you._"

"Deal from a position of strength," Vergil murmured.

"Precisely!" Enzo slapped the table for emphasis. He peered at his watch, a knock-off of a knock-off Rolex, probably chromed plastic. "Hey, it's after midnight! We can check the Cellar now."

"Excellent." Vergil rose to his feet.

"Wait a sec, buddy." Enzo leaned both hands on the table. "If you want an introduction, you gotta give me a name, and a reason for bein' in town besides lookin' for Redgrave."

He hadn't expected to need an alias. What could he use that he would remember to respond to? He had no family name, aside from Eva's and his given name was too archaic for this time and place. Yet Dante, shielded by his own pseudonym, should be able to decipher it.

"I am called Gilver, " he said at last. "I ran bounties in Europe."

Enzo clapped his hands together as if closing a bargain. "All right then, Mr. Gilver. This way, and watch your head."

* * *

Bobby's Cellar proved to be a pit below a dive. He had to admit, he might not have found the place without Enzo. A narrow alley, barely wide enough for a slim man to pass through, sloped down into cracked and crumbling cement steps. Trash of indeterminate age had mashed together into a kind of dirty white wadding along the walls.

The smell was atrocious. Vergil tried to breathe as little as possible as he descended. As they drew near the door, he caught a familiar scent: burnt candlewax and cordite. Dante's woman must come here. And she could lead him to his brother.

Enzo shoved open the door. "Hey, hey, how's it goin' tonight?"

All conversation in the taproom stopped. Several pairs of hostile eyes locked onto the men in the doorway. Hands slipped under jackets, disappeared under tables.

The barkeep, a caricature of his kind, complete with beer belly and bad comb-over, snorted and wiped at a glass with a rag of dubious origin. "Get a calendar, Enzo, tonight's Tuesday."

"Hey, I'm not workin' tonight!" Enzo protested, raising both hands, a gesture that coincidentally showed he was unarmed.

"What, Kerry under new management or something?" someone japed.

"More like under _somebody_," came the reply.

"Hey, hey, Kerry's a doll. An ugly moe like Enzo'd be bad for business!"

The jokes thawed the icy atmosphere. Vergil folded his arms, careful to leave Yamato free. Kerry... Could that be the woman Dante kept? No, this woman sounded like a prostitute. He did not remember Dante as particularly fastidious, but feeding from a whore would be like drinking water from a dirty cup.

"Oi, I don't work stables," Enzo said in mock affront. "Bobby, m'man, somebody here I want you to meet."

The barkeep continued to rub at a glass tumbler. "Does it look like I'm looking for any new friends?"

"Don't be like that!" Enzo's voice took on a wheedling tone that made Vergil's back teeth ache. "Somebody asked me to introduce him, and I couldn't say no!"

Without looking back, Enzo made a slow come-ahead gesture with his left hand. Vergil took three precise strides, stopping in the exact center of the taproom.

To his disappointment, he saw no head of silver hair, sensed no spike in the magic that had led him here.

"This is Gilver, from _way_ outta town. Worked bounties, and is lookin' to set up shop here."

Bobby looked him over, from the broad-brimmed hat and dark glasses, to the fingerless gloves and the unfashionable but serviceable boots that clashed with his dark green suit and coat. "Not too flashy," the barkeep said, and went back to polishing glasses.

That seemed to be some sort of approbation, for the other patrons turned back to their drinks and cards. Conversation resumed. Vergil did not wait for further cues from Enzo, but walked up to the bar.

"Whaddya drinkin' ?" Bobby asked. He set down one glass, reached for another.

Vergil eyed the offerings listed on a whiteboard above the man's head. "Stout," he said finally, making the best of a list of bad choices.

The barkeep grunted, flipped over a glass with surprising dexterity, and turned to the taps. A moment later, a tall glass filled with a coffee-dark liquid with a dense head of beige foam appeared before him.

"Is Redgrave due in tonight?" he asked.

"Maybe. Nobody's on the clock around here 'cept me. That'll be twenty, even."

Vergil set a fifty on the bartop. As messenger fees went, it was small. The bill disappeared into one of the wide pockets of the man's dirty white apron. "You might ask Grue," Bobby said. "Big guy, carries a Python. He an' Tony work together a lot."

"Yeah," snickered a man on Vergil's left. "Ol' Scrounger's always pickin' up somebody's crumbs. Redgrave's the only one stupid enough to let it go on."

"Shit, man, if you pulled down Redgrave's fees, you could afford to be generous, too. Once you looked up the definition, you tight ass."

"What'd you call me, you--"

Vergil sighed and moved further down the bar. Humans and their recreational toxins. If Redgrave did not appear tonight--and how long should he wait here? Too long, and he risked appearing weak. If he left too quickly, he might miss him.

"Hey, I'm _talking_ to you!"

Vergil turned, just as the red-faced man who'd mocked Scrounger jabbed two fingers towards Vergil's shoulder. Vergil made a small corrective movement, and the man's hand skimmed past, as if he were too inebriated to see straight.

"You think 'cause you got _Enzo_ to vouch for you on behalf of s_omebody _," the man crooked his fingers in air-quotes, "you can just waltz in and not pay your dues?"

Vergil sipped from his glass, letting the silence stretch. The man's lip curled, showing yellowed and browning teeth.

"Look at you, sunglasses at night. You think you're some kind of celebrity, too good to show your face? Or so bad you hope nobody 'll recognize you?"

The man made a swipe at the glasses. Vergil caught his wrist and twisted, almost to the breaking point. His sharp hearing picked up the high, thin sound of straining tendons and stressed bones. The liquid in his glass barely sloshed.

"Ahhh! Leggo, you crazy fuck!"

" I always pay what is owed," Vergil said in a low voice. "Now, return to your drink and your cards, before I decide to tally your debt to me."

"Get a load of this guy!" the merc sneered. "Comes waltzin' in here, actin' like he's some kind of _samurai_ or something, and we're supposed to be shitting ourselves 'cause he did bounties in _Europe_. Like that's hard."

"Been to the Balkans lately, Timmons?" another man muttered from the end of the bar.

From the way he hunched over his drink, eyes flicking from windows to door, Vergil guessed that this one had.

He set his glass down on the bartop. The unimaginative insults of boors such as this meant nothing to him--but an insult to Yamato was something he could not overlook.

"_I_ think he screwed up." Timmons came closer, an ugly gleam in his eye. _"I_ think Fancyboy here blew it, and dragged his sore butt back to the U.S. of A. Am I right, _Gilver_, or did you run squealing from Interpol?"

Vergil eyed the man before him. His knuckles were white with thick scar tissue, a mere brawler, a legbreaker in the local parlance. From the way he held himself, Vergil felt certain Timmons carried no firearms. He _might_ have a knife, but knife fighters were usually lean and light on their feet. This one made an ox look like a stepdancer.

"I did not run from the Mossad, I do not fear Interpol, and I have no further time for you." Vergil made to turn back to his drink, but Timmons made another grab at his shoulder.

Vergil side-stepped it and lifted his glass. He took a generous sip, rolled the dark ale on his tongue. No. It still tasted like thinned roofing tar. He set the glass down.

"Oh, now he thinks he's Barryshinkof!"

"That's _Baryshnikov_, you idiot," he said. He caught the meaty fist before the punch could so much as ruffle his hair. This time, he did not stop, but spun the man so he slammed into the bar. Vergil wrenched the man's arm up behind his back. The brawler's pain sent little prickles of anticipation through Vergil's blood. It had been a long trip, and he was _hungry_.

"But I will dance on your unmarked grave if you do not cease pestering me!"

Grabbing Timmons by the collar of his jacket, Vergil turned and spun the man towards the door. Vergil turned back to his drink. How much longer could he afford to wait for this Redgrave, anyway?

The sound of the man's body smacking against the lower steps almost swallowed the sound of the door opening.

"What the hell, Bobby? You start the party without me?"

Vergil stiffened. That voice... His own from childhood, but ripened into a woman's smooth contralto.

Bobby balled up the dishrag and threw it aside. "Show up on time if you wanna play too, Redgrave."

Keeping his expression stone-blank, Vergil turned, one thumb just pressed up against the hilt guard.

The unfortunate brawler lay groaning at the base of the stairs. Above him, one booted foot planted firmly on his rump, stood a woman. She wore faded black jeans and work boots, and a cropped black jacket. She had his eyes, his face, though softened and feminized. The light cast the same sheen on her silver hair as it did on his.

Tony Redgrave was a woman?

Redgrave stepped over the prone man. He twitched, made a tiny swiping motion with his hand. Without looking back, Redgrave planted a boot heel in his face and kept on walking.

Hoots of laughter rose from the assembled mercenaries.

"Awww, she _likes_ you, Timmons!" one of them said.

"Love hurts," another agreed, and they clinked beer bottles in mock solemnity.

She walked right past him, bootheels loud on the floorboards. The silver charms on her jacket chimed as she moved, all of them as powerless as the shattered pieces from the red coat. She passed so close he could taste her scent on the air. Magic clung to her like a whore's perfume. Candlewax and demon's blood, wearing his brother's face.

On her back, she bore a wide broadsword. An intricate harness held the blade in place, and provided support for a pair of holsters as well. Some type of handguns, he thought dazedly, one black, one nickel-plated.

Just like their --just like his father's.

She did not so much as glance in his direction, or acknowledge him in any way. Shock kept Vergil silent and still. He'd expected Dante's pet to be a lamia's cast-off, or even a low-caste gaki. With the Asian gangs moving in, their supernatural predators were bound to follow. Not once had he ever anticipated that it might be a mirror-doll.

"Gimme the usual, Bobby."

A glass thumped against the bar. Ice rattled. Vergil caught a whiff of strawberries and the sharp-sweet smell of ethanol. The bartender waved a laconic hand.

"Toni Redgrave, meet Mr. Gilver. Enzo brought him around."

Now he heard the difference, the faint lilt on the second syllable the masculine name lacked.

"Well, that's an endorsement, of sorts," she chuckled.

"Hey!" Enzo protested, but it sounded faint and far away.

Certain he could keep his expression impassive, he turned to face the thing. For a mirror-doll, he had to admit, it was a good one. Her skin was smooth, her eyes clear and intelligent. She had come in here alone, meaning she could function away from her master's sanctum without a handler.

His eye caught the line of a heavy-linked chain. It disappeared under the slashed neckline of her red t-shirt, but he felt the power. If he lifted that chain, he would see a familiar half-globe of red crystal, warmed from being held between her small breasts-

A sharp slap stung his cheek.

"Hey, sunshine. My eyes are up _here_."

The blue eyes glaring at him held no shadow of recognition. Surely a mirror-doll would have had been implanted with recognition patterns! Even if she were so badly designed this pathetic facade fooled her, his scent, the fact that he carried Yamato i_n his hand_, all of these should have revealed him to her!

Did she call one of the men here Master? He wished Bobby had not intruded so soon. He could have watched and seen which human she approached first, who she deferred to. But she would do nothing that might reveal her master-creator now.

"I heard some guy was looking for me," she continued, one hand braced on her hip. "So, you got anything to say, or are you just going to stare? 'Cause this ain't a peepshow, sweetheart."

Someone gave a juicy smack of lips and called a ribald suggestion. Without taking her eyes from Vergil, Toni flipped off the heckler. "And that's as close you get, even in dreams, Ecole."

Laughter greeted that riposte. Vergil gathered his scattered wits. This changed everything. Someone had been able to harvest enough of Dante's living tissue to craft this mirror-doll. He had to know who, he had to know why, and especially why they had chosen to shape it as a f_emale_.

"My apologies. The name... led me to an incorrect assumption."

"I get that a lot," she sighed, perching on the bar stool.

"It _is_ usually a male name," he offered, watching her closely.

She shrugged. "Not when it's short for Ántonia," she said, then swiveled around to fix the room with a general glare. "Which I. Never. Use."

"This has been a point of contention?" he asked. So like Dante to bristle up over something so minor. Except this was not--could not--be Dante.

_A__́__ntonia_. He remembered their mother reading the Willa Cather novel to them every night for a month. Dante had always fallen asleep within the first five minutes. Vergil had stayed awake, partly envying his twin his easy rest, partly out of respect for their mother, and wonder at why the tale of an immigrant girl so beguiled her. It was but a tiny childhood memory, an odd detail to include in a mirror-doll. Odd, and difficult to retrieve.  It could be coincidence. It could be another bit of bait to dangle before him. The most effective lies were built with truth.

But surely his enemies could not hope to convince he'd had a sister in place of a brother? He dismissed the most obvious possibility at once. This construct appeared to be the same age as Dante and himself--there was no chance that Sparda would have risked Eva's wrath by siring outside the nest she'd created.

She shrugged again, a gesture so familiar it made things hurt inside. "It's a girly name."

Vergil thought about the side-effects of pointing out the obvious again, then said. "You _are_ a girl."

"And a mercenary. I don't want my name known because it's girly. I want it known for what I do."

"The lone mercenary who shut down two Mafia families. The specialist who has put every hitter sent after her in the hospital or in the morgue."

Toni paused, her glass halfway to her lips. "You're not going to start quoting from _The Untouchables_, are you?"

His personal lexicon translated _untouchable_ as the very bottom of the Hindu caste system, which had no possible relevance to their conversation. "Those are the most common things told about you."

And somehow, no-one had thought to mention that Toni Redgrave was a woman. Freetown's rumor mill had some gaping flaws. Or someone had paid very, very well to keep that information off the table.

"So you _have_ been asking about me," she said with a delighted grin.

Why should this apparent interest please her? If this was his twin, that delight would stem from their reunion. But this was a mirror-doll, and her emotions could rise only from fulfilling some dictate of her master's. So she was bait, a lure to bring in the other son of Sparda.

"I had been hoping to arrange a meeting in a more...civilized fashion than this."

She arched a brow. "Is this where you invite me up to see your etchings?"

"I don't have any etchings, and even if I did, I'm not here to discuss my art collection."

For some reason, that made her laugh. "All right. Bobby, get the guy a drink. We're being _civilized_."

The fat man barely glanced up from the glass he d been polishing for the past fifteen minutes. "Whaddya drinkin' ?"

Vergil reached over and picked up Toni's neglected glass. "This. The..._lady_ will have another."

"So what _do_ you want to talk about?" she asked, sipping at her fresh glass.

"I have heard," he said, "that there is one in this city who enjoys playing with dangerous toys."

"No fun if there's no danger," she said, not looking away.

He must not succumb to such an obvious glamour. This was not his twin. This was a servant of the thief who had robbed him, no matter how her scent marked her as kin.

"Is that an economy-size letter opener, or can you actually use that thing?" She tipped her head at Yamato.

For a moment outrage flared. To insult the gift of his father--that she did not recognize...! But why would she recognize it? This was not Dante, who had grown watching their father practice with this very sword. He laid a hand on the weapon's hilt, soothing it. "It has a name."

She leaned back, tipping her stool onto its rear legs, an annoying habit Mother had scolded Dante for countless times. "And a type. Not a katana, though it's modeled for one. May I see the emblem?"

Surprise kept him still. The mirror-doll held itself loose and relaxed, no shift in scent to warn of a trap or intensifying lure. Silently, Vergil set the sword on the bartop. Toni leaned forward, brushing her hair back with their--with _his_ mother s own gesture. To her credit, she didn't touch it, just examined the twin dragon emblems on the hilt guard and the intricate tooling of the scabbard.

"The maker's mark would be on the tang, under the hilt," she mused, sipping from her glass. "But this is a Yamato, right? the ideal sword the master smiths of the East sought the blessings of the gods to create, granted only when the swordmaker and the sword-wielder are deemed deserving."

"You know blades. And their lore." It was hard to speak clearly. She'd given him, almost word-for-word, the lesson Father had given when a young Vergil had asked about the blade. She even pronounced the name correctly, stressing the first syllable.

How could some conjurer's plaything know this, unless the creator had cracked his young twin's mind like an egg? Unless Dante was dead in all but fact, his body, mind, and soul mined for power.

"Use one m'self," she said, and reached back. The blade swung into view, and recognition sang through him. _Rebellion_. He knew that blade as well as he knew his own. Yamato shivered almost imperceptibly under his hand, recognizing its old sparring partner. If she had produced his brother's head, he could have had no stronger proof.

Unless it was as fake as the creature that wielded it. Yamato had recognized the blade, and his spell had led him here... Bait, he realized, anger rising like a buzzing wall of wasps in his head. The one who'd taken his brother had made this thing to lure him in. And then to further the insult, had given it Dante's sword to complete the illusion.

Vergil had not made any friends over the past ten years, but that did not mean the ones he had killed were also alone. Some few of those had known him as the Son of Sparda. Some of _them_ had known Sparda had sired twins.

He kept his gaze fixed on the woman's sword, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. "A broadsword. Unusual choice for a female."

"Oh?" Her grin widened. "Some would say broads and broadswords are like bread and butter."

He should have seen that one coming. Dante was always three steps ahead of him with witty rejoinders-- _This was not Dante,_ he reminded himself. This was a _copy_, assembled by someone too stupid to think he wouldn't notice the obvious difference. He had to remember that, to stay angry, or she would beguile him completely.

"I meant rather, it looks heavy. Too heavy for one of your build." Vergil ran a finger along Yamato's scabbard. "Quips aside, such swords were not meant for women."

Some of the nearby mercenaries began to chuckle and draw back, giving each other knowing looks. Women were rare in this world, rarer still as powers in their own right. The 'weaker sex' , as if the entire race wasn't fragile as reeds.

"While I'm also known for my rapier wit," she drawled, "that kind of steel doesn't hold up to the work I do."

So she had--at least in part--a devil's strength and speed. Rapiers were battle weapons, no matter how the cinema portrayed them. But lighter weapons, unless dark-forged, would shatter under the stresses exerted by a demonic wielder.

"And you work for a name of strength and honor. You wished to be known for strength, Redgrave," he said. "So do I. I wish it above all things."

For might was all, and in strength lay power. Power was the lifeblood, the prime sustenance, of those with demonic blood. And nothing was more alluring than the determination of one who would be strong.

"Looking for a playmate?" Her grin never dimmed, even as she watched his hands, for his eyes were hidden from her. "Next time, try the newsstand first, it'll cost less."

"And what will you cost me?" he asked, standing. As if from a distance, he heard others--insignificant humans, at least with enough wit to scatter before their betters--moving away. Making room.

Her grin widened. "What 're you worth?"

_Challenge._ He felt it reverberate on a level silent until now. Even his brother had not reached so deeply into him, demanded such a response. Vergil moved before he could be slowed by the act of processing the experience.

Quick-strike, three blows so fast that to the human eye, they appeared as one. She parried with ease, eyes ablaze with the adrenaline-joy of combat. A human woman could not have held against him, but she _blocked_ him, turning his strength back. Testing, he feinted, a ploy from their childhood, one Dante had unraveled early.

She evaded the first thrust, letting Yamato stab forward, just whispering past her upper arm. And she turned again, even faster than memory, Rebellion up and ready to block Yamato's return slash. He hissed as their blades clashed, his momentum checked.

"So," she purred over their locked blades, "how far do you want to go?"

"First blood", he said in a voice he almost didn't recognize as his own. The darkness in it nearly choked him. He wanted that blood like he wanted power. To touch it, taste it, would be indelible proof of her identity.

She laughed and spun back out of range. His blood throbbed in his veins. This was _not_ his lost twin, but she had been modeled after a high-caste demon, and a female. He could not help but respond to that.

"First blood, hmm?" Her eyes changed, a glimmering of shadow and light. "Then bleed for me," she spat.

"So confident," he taunted, but he could not press forward. His body would not obey his mind. She _wanted_ and he must provide, that was her due.  _ No!_ He forced the compulsion from his mind. This was mere glamour, the enticement a female demon could weave around a male. She was not a full demon, not even a hybrid like himself and his brother. He owed her _nothing!_

If he fought her now and defeated her, it would send a clear signal, to the humans here, to the sorcerer who had crafted this thing. With enough of her blood, he could track the sorcerer. With her _heart,_ he could read her entire history--and Dante s fate.

The Cellar had a low ceiling, made lower still by three lazily turning ceiling fans. The normal range of acrobatics available to the demon-blooded would be foolhardy here. _Very well,_ he thought, _we can play human for a short time_.

Vergil lunged forward, bringing Yamato across in a cut that could turn a half-dozen men into corpses. Grim-faced now, Toni switched to a two-handed grip and swung the wide blade up in a brutal arc. Both blades clashed off each other, sending their wielders staggering back. Toni recovered first, swinging wide. Vergil jumped clear, smacking her blade aside.

"Hmph. How boring."

Toni bared her teeth in a predatory grin. Rebellion spun, as if she were whirling a quarter-staff around her torso instead of eight pounds of demon-wrought steel. Chairs and table edges sliced clean away.

_Oh, for...she's nowhere_ near_ me!_ he thought. He blinked against the strong wash of air--and almost missed her next attack.

Toni erupted with a flurry of lunges and thrusts, Rebellion's point jabbing closer and closer. He spun Yamato, trying to use the speed of the whirling blade as a shield. Sparks flew in a spray of hot blue and white. Vergil crouched low, just as Toni leaped, her sword raised for a vicious overhead blow. Vergil jaunted back, feeling the room twist and shift around him. Her blue eyes widened in surprise, too late to check her momentum.  Rebellion slammed about an inch deep into the splintery floor boards. With a low hum of satisfaction, Vergil slashed Yamato in a flat, two-handed horizontal cut. Before it connected, Toni kicked up out of reach. Using Rebellion as a pivot point, she spun, planting both feet hard in his chest. Vergil flew back, losing his grip on Yamato.

But Toni had lost Rebellion as well, landing on one knee with a wince-worthy crack. She wavered a bit, her balance just a little uncertain.

"You're pretty good," she said.

"You have no idea," he said, his breathing a little ragged. He could smell the blood pooling under her skin. Contusions, but no tears in the flesh. No blood yet for him to claim. "But I will gladly teach you."

Both Rebellion and Yamato lay beyond reach. Well, where steel failed, flesh must serve. Vergil rolled to his feet. Toni scrambled up, a half-second slower.

He didn't know who threw the first punch. Time dissolved into a haze of interlocking blocks, blows, and openings. Vergil spun into a side kick that caught Toni hard on the side of her head. She dropped like a sack of lead weights, rolling just in time to avoid a kick in the ribs. She grabbed the leg of a barstool and swung it at Vergil's legs. He jumped clear with ease.

"Pathetic," he sneered.

"Not done yet!" Toni rolled to her feet--and laughed. She clutched a handful of darts that had been scattered across the floor at the beginning of the fight.

"Ha!" She flung the entire handful at his face.

He swept his arm up to knock them aside, already gathering his power to push himself back out of their limited range. Again, the room smeared into a blur, his opponent the only thing standing sharp and clear in his sight.

Vergil shook sweat out of his eyes. She'd worked him breathless, made him sweat, something swarms of lesser demons could not do.  _Someone's trained her well,_ he thought. He could recognize elements of Dante's own style in her moves.

His boots skidded on the floor, then gripped. At once, he spun into another kick--speed was her advantage, he needed to slow her down for fists to be effective. She arched back, arms spread wide for balance. His foot skimmed past her face. She leapt up, left knee drawn up close, her right foot snapping out in a sharp kick to his jaw.

Vergil reeled back, swallowing a thick mouthful of blood. _Bleed for me._ Not yet, not for this pretender. Toni sprang forward--and stumbled to the side as he planted a vicious left to her face. _That's it_, he thought, feeling something warm and wet smear across his knuckles. _That's done it._

Toni twisted around and grabbed his arm. With a complicated twist and roll, she pulled him down to the floor with her. She pressed her knees to his chest, pinning his shoulders with her hands.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. A fat red droplet spilled down from her split lip. It splashed across Vergil's own lips. Automatically, he touched his tongue to it. It tasted like his own, almost _exactly_ the same, but for some minute difference he couldn't-

She grabbed his left wrist and wrenched his hand into view. Her blood smeared his knuckles, where it mixed with his own in the skin split from the blow.

"First blood, huh?" she gasped out, eyes blazing. "I think this one's a tie."

He put a hand on her chest to push her off, saw her tense.

Cold water sluiced over them. They split apart, Toni hissing like a wet cat.

"Get a room, you two!" somebody yelled.

"'Least now we know what his private business with Toni was," Ecole said, to much laughter.

Bobby waddled out from behind the bar, setting down the empty fire bucket with an annoyed clatter. 

"Alright, you two, that's enough!" He jabbed a sausage-thick finger first at Toni, then at Vergil. "You know the rules, Redgrave! And you, newbie, are _gonna_ learn 'em, or I'll ban ya both! Fists're fine. Swords, too, til ya start hackin' up the woodwork."

Toni cast a guilty look at the smashed furniture, winced a little at the pool table that no longer had one of its corner pockets. Vergil just crossed his arms. A dive like this went for third-hand chipboard in most cases. It wasn't as if Bobby's Cellar was a fine old pub with generations of history behind it.

Water droplets speckled the lenses of Vergil's sunglasses and still more dripped from the brim of his hat, which had somehow survived the brawl. He dared not remove them to mop his face. Even a drunk human would notice the resemblance between himself and Toni, especially now with his hair wet.

"So. in the interest of keeping this place standing," Bobby planted his fists on his hips and glared around the room. "You two are gonna have to settle this the old fashioned way."

Toni groaned. Startled, Vergil glanced over at her. The mirror-doll righted a chair and dropped into it, folding her arms. She looked up at Vergil and shook her head.

"Might as well grab a seat, newbie. Change of venue." She waved a hand at a fallen chair. "To the strongest stomach go the spoils for this round."

He stared at her. She could at least face defeat with some dignity Or... was this another test? She operated here from a position of power. Did she wish to see how he could navigate these human labyrinths of ritual and false fronts? Perhaps her master truly believed he was fooling Vergil with these ploys.

He bent down and scooped up a chair. "As the lady wishes."

She scowled at him. "One way or another, newbie, you're going to quit calling me 'lady'. Tonight."

He allowed himself a slight smile as he sat down across from her. The expression had always infuriated Dante, and it seemed to have the same effect on the mirror-doll. She sat up a little straighter, her eyes narrowed. Her lips pressed together in a thin line. She even had Dante's tells, he marveled.

That did not bode well for his brother.

There _were_ spells that could copy a personality--mirror-dolls needed language and socialization skills after all. But that deep harvesting could not be done without significant, often fatal, injury to the original. It took an enormous amount of power and a great deal of time. Mirror-dolls were toys, disposable constructs usually meant for an immediate purpose. So why make one that could function without a handler, that might endure for years, then turn her out alone into the world?

Bobby set down two glass vessels the size of flower vases. Something flickered in the back of Vergil's mind, a story of an Amsterdam drinking contest involving drinking beer from an almost life-sized glass boot.

Then Bobby set down a wooden cask that would not have looked out of place on a 17th century British sailing vessel.

"Welcome, you two, to the Dead Man's Party. Drink like ya wanna die."

-tbc- A/N I know novel!Vergil concealed his identity behind bandages, but that just didn't work for me.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer and warnings: same as opening chapter.

A/N: I apologize for the delay—and to those who somehow plowed through the formatting nightmare that was chapter two (m'god, what happened to my punctuation marks?!) My computer died.

(Unofficial Soundtrack):"liar, you lie" (Noir OST), "Workin' in a Coal Mine," (Devo) "melodie" (Noir OST)

Chapter Three

"_True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy..."_

--_Romeo and Juliet_ Act 1, Scene Four

The other mercenaries gathered in a loose circle around their table. Toni slouched in her chair, jaw set at a familiar mulish angle. She refused to look at him. Another Dante trait, that. In his frequent childhood fits of pique, Dante had attempted to ignore his older brother, refusing to acknowledge him when spoken to, or to even look in his direction. Such stalwart attempts at shunning never lasted long. A few hours, a day, and once, an entire week, then Dante would return, skulking at the edge of Vergil's personal space, waiting, watching...

_You will be no more successful than he was,_ he thought. No mere copy could surpass the original.

"Awright," Bobby said, cracking the cask. "The rules, for those o' youse too new or too hungover to remember: ya each get a glass. I fill the glass. You drink it. Simple."

The corner of Toni's mouth twitched, as if suppressing a smile. Vergil watched her narrowly. No status game, even among mortals, was this simple. But the other mercenaries had ringed them in, and it was clear he would get no further in his quest for answers until he completed this asinine ritual.

"Then let us begin."

The crowd roared its approval. Bobby began to pour a thick stream of clear liquid into each glass. Even with the sunglasses in place, the scent made his eyes water. Toni wrinkled her nose.

"Better drink fast," she advised. "Leave this stuff standing too long and it'll etch glass."

"Only glass?" he murmured, eyeing the liquid.

She laughed. "Well, there's a rumor that the secret ingredient is acetone..."

The bartender whapped the back of Toni's head with a meaty paw. "Watch yer mouth. This is good ol' Kentucky moonshine, m' grandad's recipe."

"Don'cha gotta know who your _dad_ is to know your grandad's recipe?" someone japed from the side.

"Big talk from the guy with the big tab," Bobby said, putting the cask down. "When's payday gonna pass you by again?"

More laughter, as the mercenary in question began to sputter. Bobby ignored him.

"All right, _ladies_, start drinkin'!"

Toni rolled her eyes but reached for the glass. It had a narrow base but a wide mouth, perfectly designed to slop its contents all over whichever unfortunate soul dared drink from it.

"Cheers, newbie," she said, raising her glass in mock salute.

Her casual dismissal was beginning to rasp against his nerves. "I have a name," he said.

Her eyes glinted in the dim room, the mix of shadow and fire that came only from mixed blood. "So earn it. Newbie."

Annoyed, he lifted his own glass. The fumes were even worse close up, searing his nose and blurring his vision into uselessness. Still, he put the glass to his lips and took the first swallow—and just barely avoided spewing it across the table. It burned like lye and ammonia. He just managed to set the glass down before his lungs and stomach seized up with wracking coughs.

"Ah, for fuck's sake!" somebody in the crowd yelled. "He didn't even make it past the _first glass_?!"

"Not even the first swallow," another agreed mournfully. "Last time I lost money this fast, I was in divorce court."

Bobby gave a theatrical sigh and gave Toni a pointed glance. The mirror-doll ignored him, drinking steadily. A minute later, she smacked her empty glass down on the scarred tabletop.

"Yup." She gave a sharp nod. "Acetone."

Bobby gave her a glare as poisonous as the drink and announced, "An' now we come to part two of the Dead Man's Party House Rules!"

Vergil, head bowed, continued to cough. Rage simmered in the back of his mind. It was not for _humans_ to seek to humiliate the blood of Sparda. A race of cowards, spawned only to serve, should _know_ in the marrow of their bones to whom they owed their allegiance, and the penalty for transgression. Pain and misery were the only lessons these creatures retained--

A firm hand pushed against his shoulder, urging him upright. "C'mon, sit up. Can't breathe through the tabletop," Toni said.

"The fumes alone are challenging," he wheezed.

"Adapt or die, newbie," she said cheerfully, "'cause we're not done yet."

"Now, if you two are done with your little chat..."

Toni raised her hands, still grinning.

"_if _a glass touches the table an' it's still got enough to cover the bottom of the glass, that drinker's round is _cancelled. _Both glasses gotta be empty before we go to the next round." Bobby splashed a little of his noxious potion into Vergil's glass. "So Toni's one ahead of ya, Gilver. Catch up or pay up."

Vergil glared, but took up his glass again. This..._moonshine_ had an oily aftertaste, reminding him of turpentine fumes. He did his best to drain the glass, though his throat threatened to close in protective reflex. This time, when he set the glass down, it was empty.

Toni sat across from him, pointedly toying with her empty glass. Were she truly the human she played at being, he might suspect this was all some manner of trap. No human of her weight and build could down such a potent intoxicant with so little visible result. Men of the human underworld used women like cheese for mousetraps, and for much the same purpose.

But Toni was her own power here, in this room, this city. His eye fell on the amulet's heavy chain as Bobby refilled their glasses. Her own power...stolen from his brother, and twisted by her master.

"Round _two!_" Bobby bawled. "Bets close when the glasses are full!"

There were _wagers_ involved in this stupidity? Well, he _had_ heard that humans with an innate weakness for gambling would bet on anything—such as which of two raindrops would first strike a pane of glass. Mercenaries, who bet their lives on equipment, terrain, and hired support, were gamblers playing for the highest stakes.

It still made for an asinine display.

Vergil snatched up the re-filled glass as soon as Bobby set it down. The sooner he ended this farce, the better. He would have his answers, or he would have this city in ashes. Ten years was time enough. The moonshine hit his stomach like diluted napalm. He felt some of the liquid spill past the corners of his mouth. His stomach roiled.

Two mouthfuls remained in the glass when it hit the table. Toni just kept drinking. _How can she do that, _he wondered, glaring at her through blurring eyes. If he hadn't seen Bobby fill both glasses from the same cask, he would swear she was only drinking water for all the effect it on them. Her. Them. Wait... there were _two _of them, now?

Vergil blinked and squinted behind the dark lenses. It certainly looked like Toni had a twin beside her. A twin... He and Dante were the true twins, not these soft-shell mannequins! Bad enough some grubby human _hedge witch_ had stolen his brother's blood and bone, now the fool had the temerity to flaunt _both _of his wretched creations in front of him?

He had to be here, the sorcerer, the thief. Vergil placed his hands flat on the table, wondering why the floor was pitching like the deck of a sailing ship. All part of the test, no doubt, he decided. Now, he just had to drink one more stupid glass, and he--

One of the Tonis sat up straight, raising a hand in warning. "You leave the table, it's a _complete _forfeit," she warned.

There was something ominous in the way she said 'complete'. Vergil relaxed, sinking back into the chair. Some of the tension drained out of the mirror-doll—dolls. Wait, where had the other one gone?

"And another do-over for the newbie!" Bobby announced.

Two glasses appeared before him, brimful of the noxious brew. He couldn't seem to pick the first one up, to the crowd's amusement. He ignored them concentrating on the table. Glass was transparent, that must be why he was having such difficulty. Glancing across the table, he saw that each Toni had her own glass, and each one was empty.

_Bitches,_ he thought, trying to focus. They probably didn't even _have_ stomachs_, _just hollowed-out spaces where human organs would be. He'd find out for certain when he took one of them apart.

He got both hands on one glass, gripping it firmly so it wouldn't float off or fade away like the other. The moonshine went down a little easier this time. He still didn't see where the other glass had floated off to and decided it didn't count. It might be full, but it wasn't touching the table, so it wasn't his responsibility. Let one of the hecklers poison himself with it, with Vergil's heartfelt blessing.

"Round _three!_" Bobby said. "The record's five, you louts think he's gonna make it?"

The white noise around him roared. All Vergil could focus on was the woman across from him. The other mirror-doll had disappeared too, perhaps chasing after the phantom glass. He worried for a moment she might come back with yet another copy. Triplets made from Dante. Humanity need not fear Hell with Chaos on Earth.

"Glasses're charged," Bobby said. "Go!"

The swaying floor shook the whole room, made _him_ shake, from his feet to his hands. He could not keep his grip on the glass. The clear splinters felt nothing like bone and the liquid spilling through his fingers had never been blood.

"That's a new one," Toni said, eyeing the broken glass. "Gonna use the rules for a dropped round, Bobby?"

She sounded so nonchalant, so distant from the insanity whip-cracking around her. He had failed to impress, and just how was he ever going to truly claim his father's legacy when he couldn't conquer a female mirror-doll of his own twin?

This absurd contest suddenly felt like the far lesser humiliation.

Another glass. Another round. '_I don't have to be faster that the monster, I just have to be faster than you!'_ A childish taunt, from somewhere in the mists of memory. A testimony to human weakness—but this was not his type of sport. He could not win on this field, but damned if he would yield. He just had to keep pace with her, wait for her one mis-step, the one flaw in her guard.

It would come. She was more than human, but less than himself. She would falter. She would fall--

--falling, but trying to recover, hair more rust-colored than golden, bone showing through ravaged red flesh, setting a fragile shield between two young boys and slavering death--

"_Get Dante! Get out! Run, Vergil, RUN!" _

Something was wrong with his eyes; they would not focus. Across from him, Toni seemed the picture of calm, a point of brightness in a room becoming mottled with black and gray shadows. She was only a few feet away, yet seemed as distant as his lost brother.

He had to make her tell him where Dante was. Make her tell him what had happened, who had done this, why his brother never _answered_ no matter how he called to him. Make her tell him where to look and who to kill, to put the world back the way it should be.

"An' it's round three _again_!"

* * *

_'Drink like ya wanna die.'_

It seemed like a marvelous option to Vergil. Blood and bile spread over the back of his tongue, and he retched and spat. His stomach heaved, trying to wring itself of the poison he'd consumed. Only the dirty brick wall kept him upright. He tried to take a breath to steady himself and immediately retched again.

When had he left the table, he wondered, clinging to the wall. Someone had to have won that contest, and he had the sure sense that it had not been him. Or had he abandoned the contest? The more he tried to focus his thoughts, the faster they broke apart, skittering away like beads of mercury on a marble floor.

He had to...go somewhere? Find... something? He looked up, but saw only a sliver of murky sky between two buildings. How had he come here? Where was _here_?

Rustling sounds dragged his attention back down to earth.

"Damn, Gilver. You are in some sad, sorry-ass condition," a familiar voice said.

So. She came for him now, after her bait had been taken and the poison in effect. She even hunted like a human, he thought in disgust, reaching for Yamato.

But the sword seemed to slip from his grasp. He reached again but the distances seemed to twist and warp, a Moibus strip nightmare. Her scent rose up around him, fire-sharp and blood-warm. He fell into it, and did not remember hitting the ground.

* * *

Every living creature dreamed, from domesticated felines to the most sadistic killers of men. Vergil paid little heed to dreams, for they were only the products of his own intellect, processing experiences and re-evaluating problems for solutions, certainly not the mystical, oracular experience mortals clamored of. So he did not understand why he should now be watching his eight-year-old self stalk across the front yard of their old home. Why should this memory assert itself now? What possible element of his childhood could benefit him now?

Young Vergil kicked at a loose stone, glanced up at the sky. Blue, but with thickening clouds to the west. Rain before nightfall, he judged. Just ordinary precipitation, a release of condensed water vapor. What did Dante find so compelling in all this mundanity, Vergil wondered. They were _supposed _to be having lessons in the conservatory, but his idiot twin had hared off to 'go exploring'. As if there could be anything left within the nearby woodlands his brother had not poked at, pried up, or tried to eat.

"You seem troubled, my son."

Sparda looked out of place on the front lawn, dressed in his formal morning clothes. The snowy cravat was perhaps a little loose, his only concession to the late summer heat. Vergil did not recognize the sword—_Devil Arm—_that his father bore today, but the handguns were readily identifiable. More mortal glitter to distract Dante, Vergil thought in annoyance.

He did not understand why one so powerful as his father stooped to using such...such... _contrived_, mechanized representations of power. _Anyone_ could wield a gun. They were mass-produced—well, his father's guns were hand-crafted, he allowed—and required only technical knowledge to master. They had no wills, no spirit or power to pit one's self again. They were tools, not emblems of prowess.

Human things.

And they dazzled Dante like a field of crushed quartz and mica.

"What's so _fascinating_ about all this?" he burst out, waving a hand to indicate the grounds. "He acts like today's grass and trees are somehow different from _yesterday's._ Once, he came home covered in dirt, all excited because he'd found some _insects_ under a stone."

And he'd expected Vergil to share that excitement, to grasp whatever wonder that kept luring Dante away. As if basic natural science was worth all that energy. The tussle resulting from that comment had broken two vases and dented a table.

Sparda studied him for a long, silent moment. "Your mother was right," he said at last. "It is time that we spoke of certain matters."

Alarmed, Vergil cast back through his memory, trying to recover knowledge of an infraction that might require their father's direct intervention.

"I had expected to have more time before this conversation became necessary, but you are growing faster than anticipated in many ways." Sparda admitted.

The few times their mother had taken them off the estate grounds with her, they had learned very quickly to conceal their true years. Frequently, Eva had been stopped, her sons exclaimed and admired over. Surely these must be her siblings, went the common refrain. Eva looked much too young to have borne adolescent boys!

After a while, Eva left them home at the nest to avoid the questions, a state that made all the males snappish and upset. How was it _their_ fault that their human age-mates were so puny? If they didn't run to obesity, they were sickly-looking things of paper-thin skin and brittle bird-bones with only the promise of muscle clinging to them.

Sparda clasped his hands behind his back. "Walk with me, my son."

Still disquieted, Vergil fell into step beside him. Father was away from home more often than not, sometimes weeks at a time. When he _was_ home, he spent most of his time in his library, a room Vergil and Dante were not allowed to enter without express permission. What could Father possibly have to say to Vergil that could not be said to Dante? Why were they separated for this?

A familiar itch formed between his shoulder blades, an unsavory sense of vulnerability. Being alone was unnatural. He'd been feeling it all too often with Dante scampering off on his 'explorations'.

They began walking towards a stand of cherry trees—Eva's favorites. _Not Eva, 'Mother'_, Vergil corrected himself. When he and Dante had woken from the gestating sleep, still safe within the womb, they had only heard her called 'Eva'. 'Mother' seemed a stranger to them, a person who Vergil had to remind himself of daily. It was easier if he thought of 'Eva' as their father's name for her, one he had no right to use.

Dante, of course, had adapted to the strange rule easily, calling her by several variations of the word. It irked him that E—that _Mother_ was so pleased by that. Why should getting a person's name wrong be something praiseworthy? Didn't their mother appreciate accuracy?

His ill temper returned, and he almost kicked at another stone in the path before he remembered his father's presence. Sparda remained calm and disciplined at all times. Vergil could not remember him even once raising his voice, not even during those rare arguments with Ev—with iMother/i. What had he done to cause her anxiety? It was iDante/i who kept running off, ignoring lessons, being disruptive. Why had she appealed to Father about him?

Sparda came to a halt under the oldest tree, resting a gloved hand on the trunk. "I never anticipated meeting one such as your mother," he said. "In all my time in this world, I have never met her equal in wisdom or courage. I never anticipated I would follow the dictates of blood and bring forth progeny."

Vergil remained as silent and still as possible. He had never once heard this tone in their father's voice. He could not match it to any prior experience or observation. Change, this close to the nest, meant danger. The spot between his shoulder blades began to burn. Where was his brother? Why were they out here alone?

"Vergil. I know you've looked at the iGenus Abyssus/i. One of the Living Books."

The Living Books were mostly forbidden to anyone but Sparda. They were...temperamental. But Father had let him into the library. The tome, for once, had been unchained. The book had let him handle it.

"Yes. I looked at it. It was... like a medieval bestiary," he said, speaking slowly in the hopes that his thoughts might race ahead to something useful. "But I could understand little of the text."

"Bestiary, hmm?" Sparda gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "A stud book would be more accurate. The lineages of the highest in Hell are recorded there, and the listing of the lowest of the castes. It is the only living copy in any of the worlds. I bore it away with me after I slaughtered the rest. But you and your brother would be found no-where in its pages. Can you tell me why?"

How did one make a living book/i? Vergil wondered. How did one go about 'killing' it? Now that was an aspect of natural science that would interest him!

But Father was watching him, the late morning sunlight flashing off his monocle.

"Because we're half-breeds?"

Sparda's eyes narrowed. "Never again let that word pass your lips, not in my hearing and inever/i in your mother's."

Vergil flinched, feeling something twist deep inside. But it was itrue/i. Born from a human, sired by a demon, the result less than either. A genetic dead-end. That was basic science. A solitary creature, with no connection to either world.

"But you are not alone," Sparda said quietly. "You have Dante."

Vergil started. He should not be surprised his father knew the path of his thoughts, he'd seen him respond to Eva's unspoken wishes often enough. Until today, however, Sparda had never done so with either of his sons.

"Dante is—is--!" _Not here_.

The burning sensation became a drilling pain, as if something sharp was trying to pierce through his spine, into his heart. His twin was _out there_ somewhere Vergil couldn't name, doing things Vergil couldn't understand, while their father was trying to speak of something of import.

"I butchered the copies of the _Genus Abyssus_ I could find—all that I knew of," Sparda said. "But I made a critical error in sparing one. Living Books are, in a way, like you Dante: mirrors of each other. Mirrors reflect off each other. When you touched the _Genus_, it reflected you back to its own twins. They know of you now, both of you." Sparda turned and looked at him directly, "I believe my enemies have this knowledge as well."

No further need to explain. The nest was endangered. Eva might prevail against minor imps—but the Underworld would send some of its deadliest in pursuit of Sparda's bloodline. The nest was always the target: kill the female and the progeny, end the line. No female would take a male—even an enslaved prisoner—whose nest had been despoiled.

And his idiot twin was off poking badgers with sticks while something _important_ was going on!

"Maybe if Dante had been born a girl, he'd show more sense," Vergil said, resisting the urge to try and reach back and rub at the burning spot. "Mother says girls mature faster."

"Be grateful he is not. A brother and sister born of one birth are a rare prize. Knowing such a pair existed, Hell would raise up such a hunt this world has never seen, not even in its darkest hours. Even without that danger, I would not desire that for you, my son. The price for that power is set too high," the Dark Knight said. "Even among demons, there are some paths that are tread only at direst need."

"Father?" Vergil took a hesitant step forward, very conscious of the darkness of his father's shadow. But Sparda seemed to have forgotten that he was there.

"There is yet one path that may avert this, one alone, if I have the strength..."

If? Father had turned back the armies of the Underworld—_alone_. He had sealed the gates between the worlds. What could possibly be beyond the Dark Knight's capabilities?

The cherry tree grove darkened, the petals falling as if a giant hand had thrashed the trees. The petals looked more red than pink in the strange half-light. Cold awareness spread over Vergil like a dash of icy sea spray.

He did not remember this conversation taking this turn. His eight-year-old self had not spoken of sisters, his father had not spoken of power, blood, and price. _This is not a dream,_ Vergil realized. The pain between his shoulders had not abated.

"Father."

The Dark Knight allowed a faint smile to soften the hard set of his mouth.

"What is happening here?" Time and space had become a sticky, knotted web, and he was no longer sure where he was, or _when_. Was his mother still alive here? Was his brother alive at all? "Do you know of that _thing_ that was made from your son? Where is Dante?"

An unfathomable shadow settled behind Sparda's eyes. "I know much that I never told you, my son. And I know that if you do not tread with extreme care, you will lose more than you can calculate."

"Tell me!" He had never raised his voice to his father in his life. But this was _his_ mind, and _his_ twin gone missing. "Who is our enemy?"

But he spoke only to shadows. The wind tossed the tree branches together like knucklebones in a tin cup. No... that was not the wind. Those _were_ bones, scythe-wielding skeletons clawing up out of the ground, reaching for him with their splintered, bony fingers. Jawbones clacked, and the brittle sounds of aged teeth cracking sounded like thin ice giving way.

His eight-year-old body was stronger and faster than a human boy's but he could fall prey to great numbers, just as humans might fall to swarms of insects. And the skeletons crept closer, chittering like beetles, their bones scraping and grinding.

"Dante..." His brother was out there, lost among the ravenous bones. But he was trapped here. Alone. Where was his sword? He'd had his sword, then. "Dante....!"

"Shhhh." A woman's voice soothed him, cool fingers brushing against his forehead. A roiling wave of glittering, opalescent power swept through him, enough to turn aside his enemies, to heal his wounds, to snatch back his life from the death-dealers who sought it.

The shadows collapsed into a more familiar darkness. The pain vanished, as if it were no more than an unexpected memory.

"Dante's fine," the voice said.

He relaxed then, suddenly more tired than he'd been in years. This was a safe enough place, this familiar darkness. It was like home, before the dark had bared its claws. Before his brother had vanished. But the voice had said Dante was fine. He could afford a short rest. Just...

=tbc=


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: same as part one. Unofficial soundtrack: "Zero Hour", "Silent Pain" (Noir OST)

Chapter Four

"_Night's candles are all burnt out."  
__--Romeo and Juliet_, Act Three, Scene Five

Vergil woke with the rare disconnect of not knowing where he had slept. Some sort of coarsely-woven cloth lay over his face. Panic flared, brief, but razor-sharp. He suppressed it, trying to take stock of his surroundings. The fabric was too light to be canvas, he could see a smoky light through the weave. He was not, somehow, being buried alive at sea.

He lay on something lumpy but too soft to be dirt. Listening, he heard only traffic sounds, muffled by walls and distance. He could sense no other presence nearby—or at least, not close enough to be of consequence. Yamato was near, and that was enough.

Reaching up, he touched damp terrycloth and realized he was still wearing his sunglasses. Why was there a damp handtowel over his face? He sat up slowly, and a warm softness fell away from him. A blanket, he realized. He'd been lying in a bed.

Quite naked.

A moment later, the pain crashed down.

He actually gasped, one hand flying to the back of his head. He expected to feel blood, splintered fragments of bone. But he touched only his own hair, slightly damp from sweat. His blood moved like sludge through his veins, carrying one slow roll of pain after another. Pain like this sapped one's strength instead of building it. As an insult to the injury, there was no-one to _take_ this pain. His strength was being wasted.

He tried to think past the pain, to orient himself in time and space. There was a gap in his memory, as if someone had physically scooped out the portion of his mind where those memories were stored. He shuddered. This was a break in a memory chain that reeled back to the womb. Even when asleep, he could account for time. It never folded in on itself like this.

A human thing, to forget, to be unaware. With a snarl, he threw the blanket aside. If he could drain the _human_ from his blood, he'd open his veins right then and there. It was intolerable that he should be as vulnerable to these petty frailties as any mortal.

Ignoring the pain in his head as best he could, he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. Dizziness surged, chasing the line of bile rising in his throat. Moving with great care, Vergil leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands.

_Concentrate. I do not know where I am... so where have I been?_ The last thing he remembered with any clarity was arriving in Capulet City and sensing the Hellgate. Summoning his patience, he waited out the first wave of uncertainty. Gradually, bits and pieces began to surface.

He remembered meeting Enzo, going to the Cellar. There had been...a fight. The knuckles of his right hand flared with phantom pain. Had he been involved? What had happened that he would resort to using his fists instead of his sword?

His boots lay in a clumsy X on the matted shag carpet, not set neatly side-by-side as he would have done. So he had not removed his own clothing. He had not come here alone.

"Impossible," he hissed.

No enemy would have brought him to shelter, left him tucked warm in bed, with his sword close to hand. He had no allies here, no servants bound to his will. Who, in this god-forsaken shithole of a city, would have helped him?

_Toni_.

The name conjured memory, an image of the construct shaped from his brother's blood and bone. He licked his lips, but they were dry and chapped, carrying no trace of the blood he'd so briefly tasted. She had as little cause to aid him as anyone else in the city. For a mirror-doll, following the master's dictates was the highest priority. Why would that wretched thief want Vergil kept alive? Unless...

Unless the thief was a collector, looking for more additions to his zoo. Vergil raised his head. A glint of blue caught his eye. There seemed to be something...glowing...on the cheap nightstand. Frowning, he picked it up.

The starfish-shaped crystal fit snugly into the palm of his hand. At first, it felt icy cold, but warmed quickly. Glints of silver shone deep in the heart of the blue crystal. He stared, fascinated, as the tiny lights shone brighter. With a soundless 'pop', the crystal burst and sent a shimmering wave of light over him.

The light swept away the pain, the heaviness in his limbs. It soothed the rawness in his throat, eased the dry achiness behind his eyes. It did not, however, restore his memory. It seemed there were things even a Holy Star could not repair.

He had never succeeded in creating a Holy Star. Either his alchemical knowledge was incomplete, or something essential to the power found him repellent. Demon blood carried some flaws with it, inborn weaknesses to certain magics or elements. He'd assumed that on some level, he'd absorbed the foolish human propaganda about his father's kind and thus could not easily work 'blessed' artifacts.

But whoever had brought him here knew how to make them, or had ready access to them. And, judging by the white square set carefully beside the lamp, had used it as a paperweight. To use such a valuable artifact for such a mundane purpose could only be meant to mock him. Someone in this city knew exactly what he was, and wanted him cognizant of that.

The paper bore a blurry logo, declaring it the property of the 'Royal Court Motor Inn,' apparently his current address. He snorted softly at the name. The handwriting looked familiar, a rounder version of Dante's childhood scrawl. Something tightened low in his gut. She even _wrote_ like his brother.

_Gilver_, it began,

_Hope you're alive to read this! Sorry about your stuff, man, but I don't make the rules, I just break 'em. I set the clock for you. Try to get outta there by noon, ok? The room isn't exactly paid for—but you owe me $50 for the rest. _

_See ya when I see ya!_

_Toni._

Well, he thought numbly, at least she didn't put a little heart over the 'i'--though a female Dante might've done precisely that, just to needle him. But this wasn't Dante, what he would have done should not impact the spell-wrought creature made from him.

'$50 for the rest'. What was that supposed to mean? The rest of what? And what time was it? He cast back through the dim void in his memory. Only fragments came to his frantic grasp. The mirror-doll's alluring scent, adding depth and texture to the darkness... the soft murmur of a voice... _She_ had been the one to tend him during the nightmare. The Holy Star had been hers.

Had she left it to taunt him? Or was she merely obeying her master's orders?

"This is absurd," he said through clenched teeth, but his body did not seem to care. It wanted to return to the darkness, to the promised warmth. As if...

No... he could not have lain with her and come away with no change to himself. High-caste demons knew the power in blood and mating, and carefully governed their use of both. Toni was a construct designed to tempt him—and a very potent temptation she was, he had to admit—but her stolen blood must obey the same mandates as his own.

Females were more immune to the biological dictums than males with demon blood. If a mating did not result in issue, they were free to abandon their partner. For males... Well, Vergil had always thought it was due to the number of female demons that consumed their partners after a successful conception. Once one chose their death, it was almost an insult to be denied it.

But even without progeny, females had a...partiality...for the ones they'd chosen, a partiality any intelligent male exploited. After all, one of the first things a male did after a successful breeding was to kill all of his consort's previous paramours. If he _had_ succumbed to Toni, he doubted he would have let her leave, no matter his condition.

_The compulsion of blood._

His father had spoken of that in the dreamweaving. Vergil had never heard the term before, not with the intent he'd sensed behind it. From the way his father had spoken of it, it seemed a thing one simply _knew_. In the Underworld, anyway. He and Dante had lived their entire lives in the mortal world. Genetic knowledge that would have been stimulated there might lie dormant for years here.

But that did not mean a sorcerer could not know of it. Indeed, they were well known for ferreting out knowledge they should not possess. Vergil rubbed his forehead, trying to restore order to his thoughts.

The sudden blare of an electronic alarm clock shattered his reverie. Turning with a snarl, he brought his fist down on the clock. Plastic shards flew everywhere, and the annoying 'brap' cut off with a sheep-like bleat.

Well. Now he knew what time it was.

Time. The dreamweaving. The Living Books.

He had not thought of them in years. Could the sorcerer who'd created Toni somehow have discovered one of the dead copies? One that had reflected Sparda's bloodline? Or... was it one of the Dark Emperor's servants, feeding knowledge to a human agent in order to extinguish the last of the Dark Knight's bloodline? Another unwelcome possibility, but one that he must consider. He had not survived this long by underestimating his demon kin.

He needed more information, data he was not likely to get sitting _here. _His skin itched, reminding him of his urgent need to bathe. The facilities of a place that called itself the 'Royal Court Motor Inn' would not be lavish, but so long as the water (eventually) ran clear, it would served. He would simply add it to the account, to be settled at a time and in a way of his choosing. Glancing around, he noticed a very important detail that should have registered before this: he did not see his clothes anywhere.

_'Sorry about your stuff,'_ Toni had written. He swore, heartfelt and vicious. As if that whole incident had not been humiliating enough! Perhaps Toni had not been the one to bring him here after all—or she had not brought him here alone. He was, Vergil decided, going to kill every man who'd been at the Cellar that night. It would be just recompense for the strength he'd wasted under that poison's influence.

Well, at least he still had his boots and-- He froze.

The amulet.

He'd carried it in a specially tailored pocket in the inside of his jacket. He seldom actually wore the heavy gem, the chain made a perfect noose for anything that could get close enough, and Vergil did not believe in making anything simpler for his enemies. But if they'd taken his clothes, they'd taken the amulet, as well as his only reliable method for scrying out his brother. He'd let himself be duped and poisoned by an idiotic mortal posturing contest, and been robbed of part of his legacy.

Forget the men in the Cellar. He would not leave a stone in this _city_ standing!

The doorknob rattled, and Vergil belatedly realized he was supposed to have left the room by now. The door swung open and a heavy woman in a janitorial smock trundled in, towing a large industrial cart. Apparently, the room was supposed to be empty, because she did not announce herself.

"Get out!" he snarled.

The woman gasped, her dark eyes wide. A hand flew to her throat. He turned, wholly unconscious of his nudity.

"Get. Out." If she did not comply this time, he would turn Yamato on her.

The woman began to back away, bumping into her cart. She began to babble something, wringing her hands together. Her panic clogged her words, until all Vergil could decipher was '_Madre de Dios,' _and a number of incoherent appeals to some saint. If she left now, she would likely run wailing to the nearest authority figure. While he had absolute confidence in his ability to manage anything the panderer-operator of these rooms might call on, there was still the rather annoying fact of his lack of clothing. He would have to improvise something.

But he needed to silence the noisy creature to buy himself time. He strode towards her. The woman's eyes bulged, and she backed away until she bumped into her own cart. The cart cut off any route of escape. She opened her mouth to scream.

Vergil drove his fist hard into the woman's fat-padded stomach. She choked and gagged, doubling over. He did not bother to catch her, just stepped aside to let her sprawl on the thin carpet. Rendering someone unconscious without killing them was not so simple as the untrained might think. While the woman retched and gasped, Vergil twisted his fingers into the lank hair. Dragging her up to her knees, he slammed her forehead against the pull-bar of her cart, trying to avoid the thinner parts of the skull. He was not overly concerned with her survival, but Toni had brought him here, and only the lower sort of demon defiled even a female's sanctuary with an unshared kill. His father had raised him better than that.

It took two strikes before the woman went limp. He checked her pulse, listened to her breathing. Her absence would be noted in due time, no doubt in enough time to repair the damage and preserve her life. As a precaution, he stuffed a washcloth into her mouth, then bound her wrists to her ankles with the phone cord. After that it was simply a matter of dragging her heavy body into the closet.

The closet didn't even have a proper door, just a sliding plastic accordion screen that had not seen much attention by Housekeeping. A cheap vinyl garment bag hung inside. Unzipping it, he spread it over the unconscious woman, covering her as much as possible. He shut the closet as best he could, but there was a tell-tale bulge where the woman's bulk rested. It would serve for now.

The cart made a useful barricade against the closet, and the 'do not disturb sign' would buy him some time. Enough time to get clean, at least. Even a tawdry place like this had a 'lost-and-found', usually a cardboard box of cast-off clothing. He could pretend to be an irate customer robbed whilst in the shower. Yamato would settle any question of payment.

He flicked on the bathroom light switch, then froze. In the speckled mirror over the sink, he could see the reflection of something hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Looking behind the door, he saw a crinkly bag of dry cleaner's plastic. A paper ticket was stapled to the front. _'Clean Clock Dry Cleaning! Open 24/7! Rush jobs our specialty!'_

The ticket listed one men's suit (jacket and trousers, green worsted wool), one men's dress shirt (white linen, French cuff). It also listed his underclothes. _Well,_ Vergil thought, staring at the ticket_, now I know what she meant by 'the rest'._ His hat, somewhat worse for wear, sat on the counter beside the sink.

He tore at the thin plastic, uncaring of how the garments tumbled from the flimsy hangers. He was after one thing, and one thing alone.

His wallet was gone, along with some items he'd carried in the pockets of his over coat. He turned his attention to the suit jacket, flipping it open. He'd had a special pocket tailored inside the lining. Inside it, he found the amulet.

The red stone spilled across his fingers, nestling into his palm. The amulet could _not_ have gone through the dry cleaning process. Nor was it likely the dry cleaning attendant had replaced the talisman neatly in the hidden pocket.

_Toni_ had to have removed the amulet, kept it safe in her keeping while he lay insensible. She had brought him to a place of safety, tended him in sickness—then returned his clothes and his amulet.

She had to recognize as twin to her own. She _had_ to. But she had not recognized him, and the tie between himself and any with Dante's blood ran deeper than any bespelled gem. More likely, she'd recognized the gem, but not its significance, and had left him here, intending to inform her master of what she had learned, just as a good mirror-doll should.

He shoved aside the beige plastic curtain and turned on the water. It grew no warmer than tepid, but it would serve. He stepped under the weak spray of water. The Royal Court's facilities were as meager as he'd anticipated: shampoo that smelled like it had been siphoned out of the anti-bacterial soap dispensers of a local clinic, and a palm-sized tablet of yellow soap. While his hands were occupied with the mechanical business of cleaning, his thoughts turned inward.

Even with the Holy Star—with _two_ Holy Stars, if he could trust that hazy memory—last night's indulgence had left its mark. Fortunately, he had a solution available. Closing his eyes as he ducked his head under the meager spray, he reached out for the Hellgate.

It felt farther away than before. He must have wandered a considerable distance in his inebriated state, but he could still touch it. With a little effort, he coaxed the energies from their quiescence, stirring them into vibrancy. This was clearly an artificial gate, one meant to lead into a pocket dimension, a kind of storage area. One of the things sorcerers commonly kept in these places were artifacts—in other words, batteries.

Dante might be held in such a place.

That could explain why all his seeking had availed him naught. The _Libellus Phantasmis_ charted only the past, present, and future of this physical world. Worlds beyond, if there were any maps for such places, would be in wholly other collection.

But for now, he must concentrate on regaining his strength. The Holy Star had cleansed him, the sleep had somewhat restored him, but he needed to replenish himself. The Hellgate had lain dormant for generations; its energies moved sluggishly at his touch. But they _moved _in answer to his summons.

Vergil closed his eyes and tipped his head back. The energy lost none of its potency over the distance it had to travel, and it washed over him with more intensity than the shower water. It coiled up from his low in his gut, the place known to Eastern mystics as _dan tien._

The energy rose in pulses, white-hot at the core, red at the furthest edges, just like the stone of the amulet. He concentrated on drawing in as much of the gate's energies as he could. With his father's warning, with this rogue sorcerer aware of him, he would need all of his strength.

The energy poured into him now, almost as pure and strong as the first time he'd tasted it: the night of his mother's murder. The last night he'd seen his brother alive.

He'd been surrounded, weary, alone. Dante had vanished. He'd _felt_ Eva die. And the enemy...just kept coming. Vergil combed his fingers through his wet hair, assuring himself that all the soap and rinsed clear. Elements of that memory had worked into his nightmare.

What the dream had not contained was the memory of this sweet power cascading through him, the power to summon, to restore the balance between predator and prey. He had defeated those demons because his power had awakened. Now, as then, he was strengthened by the power of his demon blood, restored by exposure to his birth element.

Vergil shut off the water and stepped out onto the bare tile floor. The towels were thin and rough, but he welcomed the rasp against his skin. Capulet City would pay for robbing him, and there was no better time to begin than the present.

-tbc-


End file.
